


BDSM

by heyginger



Category: Bandom
Genre: F/M, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyginger/pseuds/heyginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The real problem is that, eventually, Pete and Andy start to notice the bruises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	BDSM

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains adult themes, although I think it is much less explicit that the title might suggest.

So the problem is that Joe and Patrick are having sex. 

   
Well, no, that's not the problem.

   
The problem is that they're not very good at it.

   
Well…that's not quite right, either.  The sex is good, great even.  Patrick has really good orgasms; Joe says he has really good orgasms.  The sex is good.

   
The problem is that neither of them is exactly smooth in the bedroom.  And together?  Together they're downright clumsy.  Put the two of them together in a room with the potential for naked-time and it's like a black hole of awkward opens up between them and sucks all the suave right out of the universe.

   
And even that, Patrick thinks, wouldn't be a problem.  Because it's _Joe_.  When Patrick accidentally knees him in the eye in the bunk, Joe just holds a frozen grape Uncrustable over the socket and gets on with blowing Patrick.  And when that picture falls off the wall in that motel room in Baltimore and lands on Patrick's shoulder?  Joe rides Patrick, and Patrick holds his bad arm close to his side so it doesn't get jostled.

   
They roll their eyes and they joke about upping their life insurance coverage, but they've known each other too long for things to get weird between them.

   
No, the real problem is that, eventually, Pete and Andy start to notice the bruises.  Well, the problem part is Pete.

   
Because Pete, Pete just assumes that the bruises are because they're having kinky sex.  And Patrick?  Patrick is not going to correct him.  Somehow, Pete thinking that they have kinky sex is much better than Pete knowing that they just can't _coordinate_ a vanilla sexual encounter.

   
In Oklahoma, Joe trips over his pants, stumbles forward a few steps, and smacks his hand on the bedside table as he falls.  The next day on the bus Patrick catches Pete smirking at the dark purple bruise that's blooming across the side of Joe's wrist, below his thumb.

   
Outside of Tacoma, Patrick tries to flip Joe onto his back, but he gets too much momentum going or something, because he rolls too far and ends up sliding right off the slippery hotel comforter and landing hard on his right hip.  In the green room before the next show, Pete pokes at the bruise where it peeks out between Patrick's undershirt and his jeans.

   
"Get a little carried away?" Pete leers.

   
Patrick's face turns bright red.  Joe laughs like a hyena on the couch.

   
It's shower sex that does them in in Detroit.  Joe's foot slips and he skids his way down the wall until he lands hard on his ass.  They figure he's bruised his tailbone or something, because he can't sit comfortably for a few days.

   
That's when Pete really becomes unbearable.

   
"So, did you spank him, or what?" he asks, plopping down next to Patrick in the front lounge of the bus.

   
Patrick closes his eyes.  "Pete," he says in his most quelling voice.  "No."

   
"Because, like, I don't know how _naughty_ he was or anything…"

   
"Oh my god," Patrick moans.  He can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks.

   
"But he needs to be able to play, dude.  Like, he's hissing when he moves." 

   
"I didn't _spank_ him."

   
"Whip, crop--whatever, man.  Just, you know, next time he needs to be punished, can't you just make him lick your shoes or something?"  Pete can barely choke the last few words out around his laughter.

   
Patrick wants to die.  "Fuck.  You."

   
"I don't know, dude.  I didn't bring my nipple clamps."

   
Patrick slams his MacBook closed and gets up off the couch, making a point to try and knee Pete in the balls as he slides past him.

   
"Hey, hey, shouldn't we talk about safe words before you start with the ball torture?" Pete calls after Patrick.

   
\--

   
Pete starts trying to find what he calls "the treasure chest"—the place where Patrick and Joe keep their imaginary kinky sex supplies.  He checks everywhere, all the obvious places and then all the ridiculous ones.  It keeps him busy for a while, running around the bus saying things like, "I think I'll have cereal for breakfast," in a pointed voice while pulling a dusty, forgotten box from half behind the fridge.  He smirks while he opens the flaps and upends the box with a flourish.

   
The look on his face when he ends up with stale Fruity Pebbles all over his feet is pretty priceless.

   
It drives Pete crazy; he figures they must be moving the stuff around from hiding spot to hiding spot or else he would have found it by now.  At first it's entertaining, watching him get all worked up about something that doesn't even exist, but after a while it gets old.  When Patrick gets back on the bus one day to find his bedding stripped from his bunk and a jagged slit cut down the middle of his thin mattress, stuffing spilling everywhere, he starts to get pissed.

   
He finds Pete in the venue with Joe.

   
"What the fuck, Pete?"

   
Pete has the decency to look a little chagrined, at least.  "Yeah, sorry man.  I thought for sure I had it figured out."

   
"I keep telling you, there's nothing to figure out.  Jesus Christ!  When will you drop this?"

   
"When you admit it or I find proof," Pete says, sounding snotty again and not at all sorry.

   
"It's none of your fucking business!"  Patrick can feel the vein behind his left eye throbbing.

   
"I'm supposed to be your best friend!"  Pete actually looks hurt, which is so ridiculous but at the same time so totally Pete, and for a second Patrick feels bad about that.  "You and I always talk about sex, but suddenly you're in a relationship with Joe and, what, you don't want to talk to me anymore?"

   
Patrick sighs.  This has just gotten totally out of hand.  "So if I admit it, you'll drop it?"

   
Pete nods.

   
"You'll never, ever bring up kinky sex again?"

   
Pete nods even harder, hair flopping back and forth on his forehead.

   
Patrick looks at Joe over Pete's shoulder and raises his eyebrows.  He'd like to just tell Pete the truth, that there is no kinky sex, that they're just _clumsy_ , but Joe shakes his head.  Patrick tilts his head.  Joe frowns.

   
Patrick sighs.  What the hell.  So what if Pete thinks they're pervy freaks, right?  At least he'll shut up about it.  What can it hurt?

   
"Yes, okay.  Yes.  To everything."

   
Pete whoops and leaps in the air.  "I knew it, I fucking knew it!  Ha!"

   
Patrick nods.  "You were right."

   
"BDSM?" Pete asks.

   
"Yes.  All of it.  BD.  SM.  DS.  MD.  SB.  All the letters."  Patrick rubs his eyes behind his glasses.  "Now let's never talk about this again, okay?"

   
Pete nods again and goes running off down the hallway, calling for Andy.

   
Joe and Patrick are left standing together in the hall.  Joe is laughing at him; Patrick can tell by the way he's biting his lip, even though he doesn't say anything.  Joe starts to open his mouth, the corner of his lip is twitching up in a smirk, and Patrick shakes his head in warning.   Joe just bites down on the laughter harder and opens his arms in invitation.   Patrick steps forward and rests his head against Joe's shoulder.

   
"My kinky little dude," Joe says into the top of Patrick's head.

   
Patrick thumps him with the hand that's wrapped around Joe's lower back.  "Hey, at least it's over."

   
\--

   
And it is over, for a while.  Pete still smirks at them, and one time when they pass through San Francisco, he works it out so they have a free afternoon, and he leaves an ad for Stormy Leather sitting conspicuously on the bus table, but he never directly mentions it.

   
In fact, he doesn't mention it again until he starts dating Ashlee.

   
"So…" Pete says one day, pouring himself a bowl of Count Chocula.  "So.  Ashlee wants me to, like, tie her up."

   
"Okay…?" Patrick doesn't look up from his copy of Alternative Press.

   
"And I thought, like…you could tell me how.  Or whatever."

   
Patrick freezes.  He doesn't lift up his head, just slides his eyes over to Joe without looking at Pete.  Joe is playing Zelda, swinging the wiimote unconcernedly, using the clawshot to knock a dragon out of the sky.  Patrick can tell from the way he's biting his lip that he's trying not to laugh.  He doesn't pause his game.

   
"Um, what?"  Patrick finally looks up.  Pete looks disturbingly earnest.

   
"Well, we've done handcuffs, you know, but she wants something more…elaborate.  Like, with rope.  Fancy shit.  And I figured you might be able to tell me where to start."

   
"Pete, I don't think—"

   
Joe butts in.  "Oh, just teach him one knot, Patrick."

   
Patrick glares.  "He can look it up on the internet."

   
Pete pouts.  "Come on, Patrick.  You know I'm bad at learning from pictures. Just one knot.  How long can that take?"

   
It's going to take forever, Patrick thinks, since the only knot he knows is the one he uses to tie his shoes.

   
"Yeah, Patrick," Joe says, pursing his lips.  "Teach him the, uh, the backwards dog knot.  That one's quick."

   
Patrick narrows his eyes at Joe.  Backwards dog.  Jesus Christ. "Why don't you do it, babe?" he asks through clenched teeth.  If Patrick had a clawshot right now, Joe wouldn't have a _head_.

   
"Oh, no.  You're the expert."  Joe bats his eyes.  "You know I'd just mess it up.  And then where would Ashlee be?  All tied up with a bungled backwards dog."

   
Patrick closes his eyes.  When he opens them, Pete is making puppy dog eyes.  He sighs.  "Okay, fine.  Backwards dog.  Let's do this quickly."

   
"Wait--let me find some paper so I can take notes."  Pete gets up and starts digging around in the kitchenette drawers.  "Hey," he says, shifting stuff out of the way, "isn't backwards dog, like, a yoga position or something?"

   
Patrick glares at Joe.  "Uh, yeah, something…something like that.  I think it's, like, based off the yoga position.  Because the knot kind of…looks like it.  From a certain angle."

   
"Based off it?  Really?" Pete asks, uncapping his pen with his teeth.

   
"Oh yeah," Joe pipes up.  "They can totally be based off of all kinds of stuff.  Books.  Sports.  Movies.  Patrick's favorite knot is called _Dude, Where's My Car?_."  Joe clearly never, ever wants to have sex again.

   
"I…what?  Really?" Pete looks doubtful.

   
"He's joking," Patrick says, forcing a laugh.

   
Joe opens his mouth, and Patrick barrels forward before he can say anything.  "Okay, backwards dog.  You start with your basic, uh, two-handed…thumb grip.  Then it goes, um, up, left, back around…uh…" Pete is scribbling frantically.  "Right, over, down, down, down…"

   
Under his breath, Joe sings, "Do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around…"

   
Patrick clenches his teeth.  "Loop-de-loop then, uh, figure eight.  Through the hole, and…don't be late."

   
"…don't be _late_?" Pete echoes.  "What does that even mean?"

   
Patrick shrugs.  "I don't know, man.  _I_ didn't write it."

  
It sounds like Joe might be choking on something.  Patrick doesn't look over.

  
"Huh, weird," Pete says.

  
Joe pipes up again.  "Pete, man, it's totally heterosexist.  It means, like, use a condom.  You know, don't be late, for chicks.  Like, her period."

   
Pete laughs.  "Her period?"

   
Patrick looks over at Joe.  "Joseph," he says, baring his teeth, " _Stop.  Helping._ "

   
As it turns out, Ashlee loves the backwards dog, and Pete buys a book on shibari off Amazon and stops asking embarrassing questions.  But after that, Patrick figures they better learn a few basics so that they (meaning Patrick) never have to make shit up off the cuff like that again.

   
Patrick practices the knots on Joe, who's laying spread eagle on the bed in Patrick's LA guest room.  He tugs to make sure the fisherman's loop is secure and sits back, straddling Joe's chest.

   
Joe's mouth is open and he's smiling, shifting his shoulders and testing the strength of the ropes.  Patrick can see the muscles shifting in Joe's biceps and he reaches out to touch, sliding his fingers down into Joe's armpit to watch him try and jerk away.  He can't go far.  There's a flush spreading down Joe's neck and onto his chest, and Patrick thinks he can feel the skin heating up under his fingertips.

   
"You know," Patrick says, taking a shaky breath, "I kind of like this."

   
Joe's eyes are wide and Patrick can see goose bumps spreading down his arm and across his collarbone.  Joe licks his bottom lip, and Patrick slides back so he can lean down and kiss him.  "You look--" he says, keeping his fingers on Joe's arm while his lips move.  "Joe--" he slides his tongue over Joe's bottom lip and slides his hand down the inside of Joe's forearm to his wrist, pressing hard against the rope there.  Joe exhales hard against Patrick's cheek.  His mouth opens.

   
After a minute Patrick pushes himself up on his arms.  He can feel the blood pounding in his face, his glasses are crooked, he's gasping a little bit. "What do you say?"

   
Joe groans, "Yeah.  Yes," and Patrick leans down and kisses him some more, sloppy.

   
After another long minute, Patrick pulls away and starts stripping off his shirt.  "Hey," he says, as he yanks the fabric over his head, "do you think we need a safe word?"

   
"How about 'stop'?" Joe asks.

   
Patrick thinks for a moment.  "I think having your safe word be 'stop' is kind of missing the point."  He takes off his glasses and sets them on the nightstand.

   
"Well, yes, but," Joe breaks off with a moan as Patrick climbs back on the bed and settles on his knees between Joe's spread legs.  "Yes, but if I say 'stop' I'll mean 'stop'."

   
Patrick runs his hands up Joe's calves.  "Yes, but how will I know that?"

   
"Because I'm telling you.  Patrick, please, come on," Joe groans again.  Patrick's fingers are tracing his kneecaps, petting up the tops of his thighs.

   
Patrick fits his fingers over Joe's hipbones and leans forward, resting some of his weight on his hands, holding Joe's hips still.  "I think you're missing the point of the safe word, Joe.  What if you want to _say_ stop, but you don't really want me to stop?"

   
Joe's breath is coming in little pants now.  "But we're not going to be doing those kinds of—" Patrick leans forward and slides his tongue over the line of Joe's ribs and Joe's head jerks back, thumping against the matress.  "Okay, you know what?  'Tulip'.  My safe word is 'tulip'."

   
"There you go," Patrick says, smirking, and he finally stretches up, sliding his tongue into Joe's mouth and pressing his hips hard to Joe's hips.

   
\--

   
With repeated testing, what they learn is this: the bondage thing actually works for them. 

   
For one thing, when Joe is tied down, no one gets kneed in the eye or elbowed in the crotch.

   
Patrick still sometimes falls off the bed, though.


End file.
